


Shatterproof

by gmariam



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Episode: s01e06 Countrycide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmariam/pseuds/gmariam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fiasco in Brynblaidd taught Ianto Jones several things: he didn't want help, he didn't need protection, and he was never going to fail again because he hated being rescued by Jack bloody Harkness. A different sort of coda for Countrycide, rated for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anger

Part One: Anger

Ianto Jones was pissed off.

He was mad at Jack, for dragging his sorry administrative ass into the field. He was mad at Gwen, for her stupid, childish games back at their pathetic attempt at a camp. He was mad at Owen, for losing the SUV like the bloody ignorant prick he was. He was even mad at Tosh, for making him feel two feet tall when they were trapped in the cellar by trying to protect him from the gory sight in the refrigerator. And he was mad at the bat-shit insane villagers of Brynblaidd, eating people every ten years just for the hell of it.

Cannibals. Why did it have to be cannibals?

It was like something out of a horror movie, or worse, a campy slasher flick, only they weren't teenagers, they were Torchwood and shouldn't be dealing with this sort of shit. Frankly, Ianto had always preferred sci-fi cinema: Japanese monsters crashing through skyscrapers and aliens exploding from men's torsos were far easier to deal with than real people who just happened to cook and serve other people for fun.

Well, at least he had some field experience now. And he had a nice goose egg on his forehead to show for it, along with a bruised kidney from where he'd been kicked, a deep gash on his temple from where the butt of a rifle had knocked him out, and of course myriad other cuts and bruises from being tenderized like a slab of meat. He was tired, dirty, sore, and more than anything, _pissed off._

He shouldn't have been there, because he  _could_  have been coordinating everything from the hub. He shouldn't have been caught; if he had been quicker, he would have escaped with Tosh. He shouldn't have let them touch him, let alone cuff him and gag him and beat him; he should have fought harder. And he shouldn't have needed rescuing, especially from Jack bloody Harkness.

God, the man had swanned in on a fucking  _tractor_  as if he was John McClane and shot off every kneecap in the room like he was playing a video game on the Xbox. He should have killed them, all of them. They should all be dead and on hooks like the poor bastards they murdered every decade. Instead, they'd get to rot in prison, denied their taste for human flesh, yes, but still alive, and that, quite frankly, was too good for them. Any decent horror movie saw the bad guys get their just desserts in the end, usually in the form of a violent death, like being sucked into an airplane engine or thrown off a moving train into a volcano. Ianto felt a bit ripped off with his ending.

Sitting in the back of the SUV holding his throbbing ribs and nursing a bruised ego, Ianto ignored the quiet murmuring around him. Tosh and Owen and Gwen were trying to figure it out, hoping to rationalize something that could never be explained—Owen by swearing at it, Tosh by questioning it, Gwen by denying it. Jack was stoic, staring straight ahead as he pushed past the speed limit in an almost desperate attempt to get them away, get them home. Maybe he was more rattled than he let on sometimes. Maybe playing the Big Damn Hero wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Maybe he had wanted to kill the lot of them after all.

Ianto didn't care. Of all the things that bothered him right then, the one thing he hated the most was his piss-poor performance and ultimate failure in the field. He had gone out with the team and cocked it up on his first try. He'd got caught, got kicked around, and almost got himself filleted with a bloody meat cleaver until his boss had blown the room apart with a shotgun. Some small part of his mind knew he should be in shock, that he had every right to curl up into a quivering, sniveling ball of wooby sobs and tears. He'd earned it, after all: no one else had been caught and handcuffed, kicked and gagged, a dirty burlap sack tossed over their head and a knife held at their throat.

Ianto Jones had every right to break down, right then and there, but Ianto Jones refused.

No, he was not going to break. He had not survived Canary Wharf and lost Lisa to fall apart now. He was not a fragile glass ornament, shattering on his first field mission into a million scattered pieces of himself. He might have a some deep cuts and nasty bruises both inside and out, but Ianto knew how to fix things that were broken, and as he watched the miles roll by and the lights of Cardiff grow nearer, he knew exactly what he needed to do to repair the ornament that had been his life before the Beacons—before the cannibals and the bat and Jack.

And he would not only repair it, he would make it shatterproof.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I had a snow day, did a bit of reading, came across some badass pics of Ianto from Countrycide on Tumblr, and decided I needed to write some sort of anti-coda to that episode. Something decidedly NOT the hurt/comfort trope that fandom has come to accept in which Jack lovingly takes care of Ianto, who sobs and clings and generally embarrasses his fans with his woobiness.
> 
> This may or may not be that fic. What started out as a slightly irreverent poke in the eye turned a bit more serious and *cough* seductive by the end. But at least he doesn't cry. Not that there is anything wrong with crying, but just because a man cries over his dead cybergirlfriend doesn't mean he cries every time he gets clubbed by cannibals. Maybe he's motivated to become stronger instead.
> 
> So that's my story and I'm sticking with it. This was actually written before Perception, my other post-Countrycide story. God bless snow days, Tumblr, and my TW co-conspirators Darcy58 and Cerih. Enjoy!


	2. Determination

Part Two: Determination

When they arrived at the hub, Owen checked them all over again, redressing Gwen's wound, offering Tosh his foul smelling alien cream for the bruises on her neck, and finally stitching up Ianto's head. He was frowning while he worked, which was unusual; Ianto would have expected Owen to be grinning gleefully at the chance to drag a needle in and out of his skin and give him hell for even being out there in the first place, let alone getting his head bashed in.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he finally asked the pensive doctor. "Thought you'd be enjoying this."

"What, sewing up your thick skull? Yeah, it's brilliant." Owen continued in silence, still frowning. "You all right?" he finally asked. "Aside from the obvious, of course." He kept his voice down as if he didn't want anyone to know that he might actually care. Ianto almost snorted; he would have raised an eyebrow if it didn't hurt. So he just blinked in response and offered a bland reply.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Is that a personal opinion or a medical assessment?" asked Ianto.

"Bit of both." Owen stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. "You took quite a drumming out there, more than anyone else. You should go home and lie down for at least twenty four hours to give your body a chance to heal."

Ianto let his eyes widen in mock surprise. "You're actually giving me the day off, then?"

"For medical reasons, yeah."

"But that would mean no coffee tomorrow."

"We'll survive."

Ianto let loose his skeptical snort and stepped off the table, wincing at the pull of sore muscles when he hit the floor. "Got drugs?" he asked, gritting his teeth.

"Whatever you want," said Owen, moving toward the medical cabinet. "You'll need them for all the shit you went through." He turned back and handed Ianto a bottle of pills. "You're lucky you're not any worse off, you know. Take two every four to six hours. And take them with a glass of water and some food, or they'll come right back up."

Ianto popped two into his mouth before Owen was even finished speaking.

"Right," said Owen, stretching it out as he watched Ianto warily. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Owen. Stop coddling me."

Owen rolled his eyes and dismissed the comment with a wave of his arms. "I'm not coddling you, tea boy. Believe it or not, I suspect you're made out of stronger stuff than we think."

"At least someone does," Ianto murmured.

"Tosh told us what you did for her," Owen continued. If he was hoping for a response, he got none; Ianto looked away. He'd done nothing except make things worse for himself.

"But Ianto…" Owen ran a hand through his hair as if he wasn't sure how to talk to Ianto, which was probably the case given their rather difficult relationship at the best of times. "After everything else that's happened recently, are you all right…you know, up here?" He tapped his head, and this time Ianto did roll his eyes, ignoring the pounding in his skull the familiar action left behind.

"I'm not going to have a mental breakdown, if that's what you're worried about."

"Most people probably would after what we saw out there," Owen pointed out.

"Most people didn't watch Canary Wharf fall to the Daleks, or see their girlfriend converted into a Cyberman and then shot to death before their eyes," snapped Ianto. "Therefore, I am not most people, and you can stop worrying about me going off the rails anytime soon."

"Christ, Ianto," Owen muttered, turning his back to start cleaning up the medical bay. "I'm just trying to do my job."

"And I'm going to do mine," Ianto replied back. From above them he heard Jack's booming voice; Ianto wondered how long he'd been there.

"No, you're both going to go home, clean up, get some sleep, and forget about coming in tomorrow," he said. His casual pose belied the tension in his voice.

Ianto glanced at Owen, who glared up at Jack. "Is that an order, Captain?" the doctor asked sarcastically, obviously not interested in following it; Ianto hated it when he agreed with the doctor.

"Yes, it's an order. I'm going to take Tosh home, so I can drop you both off if you like."

"No thanks," said Owen, dropping the bin liner back in the bin. "I'm good on my own. Gwen need a lift?"

Jack narrowed his eyes, and Ianto suppressed a smirk; not hard to tell what was going on there, was it? That was Torchwood: everyone sleeping with everyone. It had been the same in London. Sometimes Ianto was surprised there wasn't more of it at Torchwood Three given the rumors he'd heard about their leader back at One, not to mention the never-ending flirting-bordering-on-sexual-harassment that leader seemed to never tire of.

"She's changing, but she probably wouldn't mind," Jack finally replied. "Ianto? Can I give you a ride home?"

"I'm fine, sir. I'm going to clean up here before I leave. Don't want to dirty my car." He started up the stairs and was walking past Jack, ignoring him completely, when the other man reached out and caught his arm.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Jack asked softly, leaning close. "If you need anything, I can…"

"What?" asked Ianto dryly, wondering what the man could possibly offer at that moment. "Help me shower and dress? Tuck me into your bed so you can watch over me? Please, sir. I can take care of myself." He pulled himself out of Jack's grasp and moved away.

"Next time, then," he heard Jack murmur under his breath, and he turned around to pierce him with a steely glare.

"There won't be a next time, sir," he said, and he headed toward the showers, ignoring the silence behind him until he heard Owen speak.

"What the hell did that mean?"

Ianto grinned to himself: it meant that he was not going to fall apart, just like he had decided in the SUV. It meant that he didn't need anyone's help after what he had gone through, nor did he want it. And it meant he would do everything he could to make sure that what had happened in the Beacons never happened again.  _Constant Vigilance_ , a gruff voice sounded in his head, and Ianto laughed to himself as the words from a children's book suddenly seemed so appropriate.

Yet more than anything, it meant that he was never going to fail again, and hell if anyone—including and especially Jack Harkness—tried to stand in his way and either help him or stop him from making sure he was ready and able to take care of himself next time he ran into a clan of murderous cannibals in the middle of the countryside.

* * *

In the end, it was more difficult than he anticipated; pulling off damp, dirty clothing caked in dried blood when he was stiffening up just about everywhere was not one of the easiest ways to undress, but he managed and didn't cry out once. Unfortunately, when he was done, the pills Owen had given him with explicit directions to take with food and water came right back up, so that Ianto found himself pale and panting against the toilet before he managed to make it to the shower and wash the blood, dirt, and vomit from his battered body.

But he did, and he did it on his own. He even forced his hands up to his pounding skull, rinsing dried blood from his hair while ignoring the burn in his shoulders, the result of his arms being yanked behind him so hard. But he didn't want help, he didn't need protection, and as soon as he was warm, dry, and had found something to eat, he would begin to make sure of it.

Pulling on the spare jeans and jumper he kept in his locker, Ianto ruthlessly suppressed any groans that tried to escape his lips. He refused to look in the mirror at the bruises littering his body, instead simply running a hand through his wet hair before he pulled on his trainers and went in search of food.

The hub was still empty, which was an unexpected relief. Ianto could use a bit of personal quiet time after almost dying, and the last person he wanted to run into was his overzealous boss after what they had all gone through. Other people might want to surround themselves with light and life after such an experience, but Ianto turned down the lights, pulled out some cold pizza and a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and popped two more pills before sitting down on the sofa with a notepad, content to be alone.

He began the list that would officially rewrite his life; by the time he finished the pizza, he knew exactly what he had to do. He was feeling pleasantly full and quite loose from the painkillers that raced through his system. Deciding now was as good a time as any to start crossing things off the list, Ianto brushed his hands on his jeans (there was no one around, so why not?) and made his way to the firing range.

He wasn't a bad shot; he'd had the required firearms training at both Torchwood One and Torchwood Three. In fact, he'd shown some aptitude for it, but junior researchers and general administrators didn't have much reason (or time) for keeping up their weapons skills, so it was more a question of perfecting them—making it a habit, something instinctual. He needed the reassurance a solid shot would give him should he ever end up staring down the wrong end of a rifle again.

So with grim determination he ignored any lingering aches and pains as he unlocked the weapons cabinet and began setting up the table. He pulled the targets into position, grabbed a pair of goggles and some ear protection, and slowly but surely made his way through every weapon on the table, until his arms were exhausted and the targets shredded.

He knew that at some point Jack had come in and was watching, but he didn't care. He idly wondered why Jack hadn't offered his usual unasked-for advice, since that was his thing, big guns and all that, but again—Ianto didn't care. He didn't want Jack's help; he could do this on his own.

So he simply tipped his head to the captain and finally went home, feeling slightly better about his day in spite of almost dying in a charnel house.

* * *

Ianto tried to get up and start a new running regime the next morning, he really did. But the painkillers had worn off overnight, and he could barely get out of bed without groaning, let alone make it to the toilet and lift up a toothbrush. He showered slowly, thinking about what he could manage that day from his list: perhaps a bit more target practice, certainly some research, maybe a quick turn in the small workout room of the hub if he timed it right with the painkillers.

Getting dressed was as difficult as undressing had been the day before. Ianto cursed as his hands refused to knot his tie correctly, until he just tossed the maroon silk on the bed in disgust, vaguely tempted to cut it to shreds. He knew perfectly well the team would gasp at his attire—or lack of—and Jack would throw all sorts of innuendo-laden comments at him, but what the hell. He wasn't required to wear a suit and tie every day, he just did it out of habit. Torchwood One had required it, and keeping up the look had felt more comfortable when he had moved back to Cardiff and infiltrated Torchwood Three.

Ianto chuckled to himself as he went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.  _Infiltrated._  That sounded far more James Bond than it really had been. As he blew across the hot liquid, he smirked to himself as he imagined the team also gawping at him for drinking chamomile tea first thing in the morning instead of coffee. Well, Owen called him the tea boy, didn't he? Tea relaxed him; it was only at work that he needed the constant hit of caffeine to make it through the long, stressful days.

It occurred to him then that he wasn't supposed to go in to work that day. He was supposed to stay home, rest, and recover from his injuries. He remembered when he had been forced to spend an entire month at his flat while on suspension not that long ago. Only Jack had come by, to check on him after Lisa had died and make sure he wasn't hanging from the ceiling. The rest of the team had apparently been surprised to learn he actually had a flat; they had seemed to think he either lived at the hub or in a rancid bedsit, maybe. After he'd come back, Tosh and Gwen had both asked him to dinner so many times they must have thought he was homeless and starving.

He'd bet money Jack would be at work, since he almost certainly lived at the hub; he was there twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, after all. Sometimes Ianto suspected Jack had less of a real life outside of Torchwood than any of them. Owen would come in as well, because he'd be bored after everything that had gone down the day before, and he was an adrenaline junkie even if no one else saw it. And Tosh would come in to fiddle with her computers, because that was her coping mechanism when things went to shit. Only Gwen would be the one to follow orders, which was rare, but she had a life outside Torchwood to stay home for…and then again, she had been shot, so she probably needed it.

Ianto was going in. He had his own coping methods, and work was one of them. That, and making sure he was never handcuffed, beaten, kicked, knifed, or cold cocked by the butt of a rifle again.

He was right: Tosh showed up not long after he started the morning coffee, and Owen came in an hour later, looking strangely smug about something. When he saw them on the sofa, talking quietly about what had happened in the most distant of terms, he insisted on examining them both. He raised a questioning eyebrow at the state of Ianto's hands—it was fairly obvious he'd spent time on the firing range since returning—but Ianto stared him down and nothing was said.

He avoided Jack all morning. Jack was the last person he wanted checking on him, fawning over him and making sure he was all right. He was fine.

Popping two more pills with lunch, Ianto disappeared into the archives to do his research. He took a break to stretch sore limbs on the treadmill midafternoon, went to the firing range before dinner, and then left without a word, determined to stop at the store on the way home for food—good food, not take away and junk food. And maybe a twelve pack of Brains to get him through.

* * *

It was a week before he could run, the pain in his side too tight to start any earlier. He picked it up with renewed zeal: he had run in London, had loved jogging through the neighborhood where he'd shared a flat with Lisa. After Canary Wharf, though, he'd left everything behind, including all the things he'd loved: running, pub quizzes, the symphony, even his furniture. Only his personal belongings had come with them as they'd fled, and he'd had no time for anything else before she had died the second time.

Now he decided he would make the time, and he would use it to make a difference.

He ran every morning, feeling his endurance growing each day. He started going to the workout room in the hub more often. He sparred with the punching bag until he almost longed for a real partner. He went to the firing range every day and vaguely entertained the idea of setting it up for archery should he ever need such a skill. Sword fighting would be even better; certainly there must be aliens who carried broadswords instead of blasters somewhere in the galaxy.

He had his moments of doubt, and Tosh apparently encountered him with her pendant on one of those days. They went out for lunch a few days after Jack had sent her girlfriend into the sun, Tosh nervously asking if he was all right while he asked the same thing of her. After joking about how their boss seemed to have a thing for killing their significant others and wondering how Rhys would ultimately fare (especially in the light of Gwen and Owen's now quite obvious affair), Ianto assured her he was fine, just having an off day. She didn't seem to believe him, but it was the truth: he'd woken up late, had a shorter run than usual in the cold rain, no time for the workout room, and a poor target practice. It had all left him a bit despairing of ever achieving his goal, but he didn't tell her that. He assured her he would be all right and turned the tables, getting her to open up a bit about her own loss. He could certainly sympathize, that was for sure.

Jack tried to approach him later as well, but Ianto was still angry at his boss—or rather, he had focused his anger on Jack even though he knew it wasn't really Jack's fault or even Jack that he was mad at. It just seemed easiest because Jack was the one whose charismatic presence overwhelmed them all, and sometimes Ianto didn't know what to do with that—with the flirting and the joking and Jack's intense need for action and attention. So Ianto brushed off Jack's repeated attempts at interaction even though he could see that for some reason, Jack was hurt by it.

Instead, he went downstairs and blew the shit out of the Weevils on the firing range with the biggest semi-automatic in the case. He felt better. He felt stronger. He felt like he might be able to do this after all—the others and Jack be damned.

* * *

In just a few short weeks, Ianto felt fit and stronger. His injuries had probably healed quicker for it, as well. He was almost an expert shot now, had developed a hell of a left hook and kidney shot (no irony there), and had even found some other, more interesting weapons and fighting techniques buried in the archives to enhance his training program. Shatterproof: that was his goal.

But Ianto needed to learn more about handcuffs.

He considered asking Jack, fairly certain the man knew far too much about such things than was probably legal given his proclivity for making lewd comments about them, as well various other forms of sexual exploits, every day. Hell, it could be interesting as well as instructional; Jack was an attractive man, after all.

But how to approach it as a purely educational endeavor and keep it strictly professional? Especially when he was still irritated with the man.

And then Suzie died again, and Ianto was holding his stopwatch down in the morgue, feeling very clever and very curious, in spite of how much Jack still bothered him at times, and never mind the fact that Jack had just killed a former member of their team. Ianto asked, in a rather round-a-bout way.

Jack did know a lot about handcuffs—as well as ropes and silk ties and various other items Ianto was somehow not surprised to find in the man's possession—and Ianto was a quick study. His timing improved night by night, until he knew he wouldn't have to worry about any restrictive devices should he encounter them in a more dangerous situation again. Maybe he could transfer to MI6 if he survived Torchwood and become an international spy instead of an undercover alien hunter who mostly did the paperwork.

And he had to admit, the incorrigible flirting and suggestive banter was rather exciting, even if he was still annoyed with Jack Harkness, Big Damn Hero with a drawer full of sex toys.

All in the name of survival.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you caught some of the tongue-in-cheek winks in there, both to this fandom and others. Ianto Jones, badass extraordinaire, isn't that unbelievable, is he? Enjoy!


	3. Confidence

Part Three: Confidence

The first time he went back out in the field after the Beacons was unexpected and unplanned. Tosh and Owen were already out on a retrieval, and Gwen was out with Rhys. Usually Jack would steal her away from her date anyway, but for some reason he had tossed Ianto his coat and called him out after some Weevils.

And damn if Ianto wasn't determined to prove himself at least ten times over. He'd been working hard enough, and now was his opportunity to make up for the Beacons, to learn for him himself whether he was strong enough for this job or a continued liability in the field.

Jack liked to run, so it was a good thing Ianto had started running again, because he could keep up easily. Jack also liked to tag team while Weevil hunting, so they split up to circle around the beasts and herd them together before stunning and cuffing them. Unfortunately, there were more than the two Weevils they thought they were chasing, and without warning, one came up behind Ianto, knocking him to the ground. Instinct took over, and he twisted, grappling with it before managing to stun it in the chest, flip it and cuff it, just like he was supposed to do, even if he'd never done it that way before.

Yes, he was a badass field agent now. Brilliant. He grinned to himself as he caught his breath.

Then he heard Jack shout, and he left his unconscious Weevil in the grass and started running toward the sounds of fighting—of yelling and snarling and a sharp grunt of pain. Jack had already taken down one Weevil, but another was on top of him. He looked stunned, his reflexes slow, the front of his shirt covered with blood. As if seeing it all in slow motion and with perfect clarity, Ianto calmly pulled out his handgun and shot the Weevil clean through the head without a second thought for hitting Jack, because he instinctively knew that he wouldn't. He thought about blowing on the end of the barrel for show, but instead ran over to Jack, adrenaline pumping like mad through his veins; they needed more Weevils, stat.

Jack was staring at him in shock. Maybe he had hit his head too hard? Ianto pulled the dead Weevil off him and frowned at the mess.

"Sorry about that, sir," he said. "I know you'd prefer we cuff them, but I thought it'd be better to shoot first and explain later." He held out a hand to Jack, who took it and pulled himself up, rubbing the back of his head. There was blood on his shirt and collar, but Ianto couldn't see any injuries. It reminded him of the first time he'd met the man, out in the woods chasing Weevils on his own. Glancing around, he frowned. Come to think of it, this was the same park, wasn't it?

"Nothing to explain," Jack finally said, apparently having found his voice. "Thanks."

"No problem," Ianto replied with a shrug. He tried not to feel uncomfortable, but the way Jack was looking at him was making him…well, it was making him something, that was for sure. "Toss them in the back of the SUV then?"

Jack nodded, but didn't move. Maybe he was still woozy. "So apparently all that target practice paid off."

"Apparently, sir," Ianto replied dryly, not surprised that Jack knew he'd been going down to the firing range so often. "That is why people tend to practice, to get it right when it matters."

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that why you've been spending so much time down there? You're almost as good a shot as Owen now, and way the hell better than Gwen."

Ianto rolled his eyes as he fished out the keys from his suit coat and started walking away. "Well, Owen would rather have a pint than practice, and Gwen would rather talk first and shoot later."

"An accurate assessment, I think." Jack laughed, following Ianto toward the SUV. Better to pull it up than to drag three more dead and unconscious aliens across the park. "But you've worked hard—target practice, running, fighting, the bit with the handcuffs and ropes." He punctuated that last with a wink that Ianto returned with a grin.

"I appreciate your help with that last," he said.

"The pleasure was all mine," Jack said, wagging his eyebrows. "And although I had a pretty good idea why, I'm still going to ask: why?"

"Why what?" asked Ianto, climbing into the driver's seat and starting the car. Jack jumped in beside him.

"Why this sudden obsession with it all? You used to be content to work in the archives for hours on end—"

"I still am," said Ianto, driving somewhat recklessly through the grass and hoping Jack dropped whatever he was getting at.

"But now you come up and go to the punching bag, or the firing range, and did I see you with a rapier last week?"

Ianto inclined his head. "Possibly. Just trying something new."

Jack was silent as they pulled up next to Ianto's Weevil first. "You're compensating."

"For what?" Ianto asked as causally as he could. Together he and Jack tossed the beasts into the boot. The other two were not too far away, and they starting walking through the dark park to drag them over. Jack stopped him in the shadows of a large tree first.

"You're compensating for what happened in Brynblaidd," he said matter-of-factly. "For what they did to you. You want to make sure it never happens again, don't you?"

"It won't," said Ianto, but his heart was racing as Jack hit so close to the truth. Damn him for crossing the line. Everything about their relationship—even the handcuffs—was professional. Talking about coping and compensating was personal, and Ianto didn't do personal, not with Jack Harkness. They did distance and flirting and nothing else.

Jack was silent, as if contemplating how to continue after Ianto's curt answer. They threw the last two Weevils in the boot and slammed the door. Jack was just about to open his mouth and say something, when instead his eyes widened as he shouted, "Ianto! Look out!"

A sixth Weevil came charging out of the trees, plowing into Ianto like a boulder mowing down a small tree. Ianto felt the beast immediately going for his jugular, just like the other, only this one was much larger and much stronger. He twisted and turned and pummeled at it, unable to get at his stun gun. Then suddenly, within seconds, it toppled over with a grunt, and Ianto jumped to his feet, furious.

"What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded. Jack had put away his weapon and was already cuffing the Weevil. He glanced over his shoulder with an amused look on his face.

"Just trying to help with the Weevil problem," he replied, far too glib for Ianto at that moment.

"It wasn't a problem, and I didn't need help," Ianto growled. Jack tossed the Weevil into the car with the others, then turned toward Ianto.

"So that's what this is about."

Ianto stared at him before stalking toward the drivers seat. "Fuck you, Jack," he said. "And get in the car."

To his surprise and annoyance, Jack followed him instead of going around to the other side. "Let me drive," he said, reaching for the keys. Ianto pulled them out of his reach.

"No way," he said, offended. "I'm fine."

"You're injured," said Jack, which was when Ianto noticed that there was blood dripping down the side of his face.

"I've had worse," he snapped. He wiped the blood from his cheek, glanced at his hand, and cleaned it on his trousers, not caring that it would likely ruin them.

"Yes, I know you have," Jack said slowly, watching him warily. "And it doesn't look that bad, but if you let me drive, you can stop the bleeding and clean up a bit while we talk."

"I can drive, Jack," Ianto said. "And I'm not talking." For some reason, he was determined to do this, to prove himself even with this small thing. It didn't even occur to him that he already had, because once again Jack had come swanning in to save him. Fucking hell, it had all been for nothing. He climbed into the driver's seat and swore as he slammed his hands against the steering wheel and let his head fall forward.

"Ianto?" asked Jack, finally climbing in to sit next to him. "Will you tell me what this is really about?"

He glared at Jack, wiped at the blood on his face again, then got of the car and started pacing because now he was too upset to drive. Jack joined him, leaning against the hood.

"You're angry at me," Jack started. "For stunning that Weevil."

Ianto simply nodded and kept pacing. Of course he was mad. He hadn't spent weeks running and training and targeting just to be saved from another imminent death by Jack bloody Harkness again. God. As if every other time hadn't been enough.

"You know, you could look at it as returning the favor," Jack pointed out. "Since you did shoot one off me first."

"That was different," Ianto said, still pacing in agitation

"How?" asked Jack.

"I could have handled it," Ianto hissed, pointing a finger at his chest to emphasize his words.

Jack threw back his head and laughed. "And I couldn't?"

"You were already dazed and bleeding," Ianto retorted. "I was trying to…" He trailed off. "Help with the Weevil problem," he finished, echoing Jack's earlier words and laughing bitterly.

"Exactly. Because that's what we do," Jack said. Ianto stared at him, hating that Jack had actually made a valid point. "We help one anoter. We're a team, Ianto. We have each other's backs. There's nothing wrong with needing or even wanting assistance when there's a Weevil chewing on your necktie."

Ianto managed a weak grin. "Right. Still." He shrugged, unwilling to go any further, but Jack gave him that look, the one that could charm a mute into talking for hours. "It's just that I want to be able to do this on my own. I  _need_  to do this on my own."

"You did," said Jack, his voice earnest. "You did it back in the Beacons, and you did it tonight. But you don't need to risk your life to prove a point."

Ianto rolled his eyes. "I wasn't risking my life."

Jack stepped forward and brushed the hair out of the cut on Ianto's temple, which was not far from where he had been butted by the rifle in the Beacons, an irony Ianto noted and ignored along with the shiver Jack's touch sent straight through him. "It felt like it to me."

Ianto ducked his head away from Jack's fingers and handed him the keys. "Sorry, sir, it won't happen again." He took out a handkerchief and held it to his head as he went around the car to the passenger side. He heard Jack sigh as he climbed in to drive them back to the hub.

"You know, I'm the one who should apologize," Jack said, though he did not start the car.

"What for?" asked Ianto leaning back. The adrenaline rush was over, leaving him tired and disappointed. He just wanted to bandage his head and go home. He'd start training harder in the morning to make up for his failure that night.

"For stepping in, maybe," said Jack, but then he shook his head. "Though I certainly couldn't stand there and let it try to maul you. Mostly I'm sorry you're going through this. I know how hard it is."

"You know how hard it is to be constantly rescued from impending death by your irritating yet attractive boss?" Ianto asked sarcastically, the words slipping out before he even realized it.

"You think I'm attractive?" Jack asked, ignoring the more meaningful part of what Ianto had said. He wasn't sure, but Jack looked secretly pleased, as if hundreds of men and women hadn't already told him the same.

He gave Jack a bland look and motioned at the keys to get him to start the car and end the excruciating heart to heart. "And irritating," he reminded dryly. "Are you going to start the car?"

Jack turned and faced him. "Maybe. I want to be sure you're okay."

"I need a plaster," Ianto grumbled, closing his eyes. "And maybe a stiff drink."

He felt a set of warm lips on his and opened his eyes to find Jack kissing him, a simple kiss that didn't last long but held the promise of more. With a grin, the other man pulled away. "Maybe that irritating yet attractive boss could help?"

"I don't need your help," Ianto replied half-heartedly, holding back a smile, because…well, the thought of it wasn't quite so bad now after that kiss.

"Then don't think of it that way," Jack murmured back with a sly grin. "Think of it an invitation for more, perhaps."

Ianto nodded slowly, his lips tingling from where Jack had kissed him. He wanted to grin back but merely raised an eyebrow as he tried to wrestle back a little of the control he'd lost. "Like what?" he asked softly, his lips a whisper against the other man. It was strange to feel both anger and desire for Jack Harkness, though it certainly wasn't the first time he'd felt it.

Jack held his eyes, and they stared at one another for quite a while, neither of them making the first move. Ianto was almost ready to sit back, thinking he had misread the situation, when Jack growled and practically pounced on him, slamming his lips to Ianto's as his hands came up to wrap around his head and tangle in his hair.

Ianto opened his mouth to the kiss, moaning softly as Jack's tongue darted over and around his, and Jack's hands ran through his hair and down his neck to his shoulders. He shivered and wrapped his own arms around Jack, pulling him closer even though it was extremely awkward in the front seat of the SUV; he felt like a fumbling teenager again.

"Sometimes I want to punch you," Ianto gasped when Jack pulled back and began to wrap kisses around his jaw from right to left.

"I know," Jack breathed onto his neck. "Bit late for that now, though."

"You're so infuriating sometimes," Ianto replied, but he let Jack continue, trailing his hands up and down Jack's back until they came to rest on his hips.

"And you're perfect," said Jack. He suddenly leaned back, the look on his face very serious. "You know that, right? You were damn good out there tonight, Ianto. And you were so brave in the Beacons. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed," said Ianto, which was only half true: he wasn't ashamed of his failure any more, he was simply determined to avoid failing ever again. "I just want to be strong enough, earn my place on the team. No more running, no more hiding, no more coddling. No more mistakes and regrets and—"

"And no more compensation," Jack interrupted, tracing Ianto's lips with a fingertip. Ianto opened his mouth to protest, but Jack kissed it closed for a good while, then pulled away again. "I mean it. You can do this. You just need to believe it instead of beating yourself up over it. Have confidence in who you are and what you've already accomplished, because it's pretty damn amazing from where I'm sitting."

"Confidence," Ianto murmured. Oddly enough, Jack's simple words filled him with more confidence than he'd felt for months. He viciously silenced the tiny voice in his head telling him that he didn't need any sort of validation, especially from Jack Harkness. Because maybe, just maybe, Jack was right: perhaps Ianto's hard work had paid off, and he was finally becoming the man he wanted to be. He just needed to believe it. Have confidence.

A slow smile pulled at his lips as his whole world shifted, right there in the front seat of the SUV. He  _was_  his own man—strong and capable and confident. He knew there would be slip ups now and then, but at that moment he felt ready…and not just ready for fieldwork. An unexpected…well, not completely unexpected…but a feeling he had never really considered acting on began to tug at the back of his mind. Bloody confidence.

Glancing around the car, his mind working fast, Ianto reached down under Jack's seat and released it back all the way. Jack went with it, and Ianto climbed quickly onto his lap, slipping a hand to the switch on the side and pressing it down until the seat was horizontal, and he was lying on top of Jack, propped up on his elbows. "Is that confident enough for you?"

Jack's eyes were wide, his breath coming quick at the sudden dip, and he appeared momentarily speechless. Then he grabbed Ianto's tie, pulled him down, and positively ravaged his lips. "Not what I was thinking," he managed to gasp out as Ianto let his hands roam. "But better than I ever imagined."

Ianto sat up and grinned, bumping his head on the roof of the car but not caring. "You imagined this? Me, you, in the front seat of the SUV with six Weevils in the boot?"

"One of my most vivid fantasies," Jack murmured, his eyes roaming over Ianto's face, his lips, his entire body with obvious desire.

"Liar," laughed Ianto, but he leaned back down, holding himself up on strong arms as Jack reached forward to kiss him once more. Confidence.

Yes, that was what he had been missing. And that was what he had found, first through anger and then with hard work and determination. He could go into the field now and not be afraid of failing. He had barely survived the Beacons, but if he were to go through anything like that again, he would do better, do more, and survive once again. Because he was stronger and faster and had found his confidence.

And even better…his confidence currently had Jack Harkness pinned underneath him in the front seat of the SUV, hard and willing and yes, one hell of an attractive man even if that had been a slip of the tongue.

Jack was currently kissing his neck in such a way that Ianto wondered why they hadn't done this before. So much for being pissed off at Jack bloody Harkness. He'd just have to make sure Jack didn't save him every time; he'd like to be able to save Jack every so often as well, since he'd worked so hard at honing his skills. And if the post-rescue skull session involved this sort of debriefing, he could really get used to field missions, especially Weevil hunting.

And maybe he'd even survive, now that he was shatterproof.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's another snow day done and gone. Different than what you usually find post-Countrycide? I hope so. I tried. It was strange that what came out of my fingers didn't always match the intent of my brain. Writing is funny like that for me, which is one reason I enjoy it so much. Sometimes it's a real surprise to see how something turns out, even when you are supposed to be The Author and In Charge. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


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